William Yagel
Grace Radford
April 2, 2023
Palm Sunday, Year A
Holy and Loving God - may the words of my mouth and the meditations of all of our hearts be pleasing in your sight oh Lord for you are our rock and our redeemer.
Amen
All glory Laud and Honor to thee Redeemer King. To whom the lips of children made sweet Hosannas ring!
Hosanna! Hosanna! Hosanna is our cry this Palm Sunday morning. We enter the chorus from ages past singing this beautiful hymn. Celebrating and commemorating the triumphal entry of Christ into Jerusalem.
We shout joyful Hosannas. Hosanna is a Greek word that scholars believe was transliterated translated from two Hebrew words. The first is “Yasha” meaning save. The second is “Anna” meaning please. Hosanna literally means “Please save us”. This morning churches across the globe cry in unison “Please save us.”
This word only appears six times in the New Testament. Always related to Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem. Jesus walked into Jerusalem to save us. Jesus still comes to save us.
Then in stark contrast to our cries of Hosanna we just heard the passion narrative and we all called together for Christ to be crucified. To be honest, I prefer the version of Luke where we all simply cry:
“Crucify! Crucify Him!”
The starkness seems to speak better to our condition, to the starkness of the contrasts in our lives where we want love and salvation and peace, and yet we seem determined to work against those desires.
This is indeed a day of stark contrast, in a week of stark contrast, in a life of stark contrast.
I am not sure if any of you pay much attention to our Psalms. Because of the way they are written and the way we recited them, I can usually sense the lyricism in them. I do love the poetic cadence of their lines, but I can get lost in the movement and it is often hard for me to process the meaning of the words directly, so it can take longer for truth to emerge.
But not this morning. Our Psalm this morning has always jumped out at me. This psalmist understands and reflects beautifully the challenges and tensions of a life of faith. Her suffering is real and personal. It is intimate and fully hers, not an intellectual reflection on pain, but the real impact of pain in her world. Psalm 31, and this section in particular is one of the most arresting lament psalms we have.
She sings lament. She sings of the sorrow that surrounds her and affects her so deeply that she is physically affected in her eyes, her throat, her belly. She sings that her strength fails her and that her bones are consumed. Her grief washes over her wrecking her emotions. She speaks of feeling out of her mind, like a broken pot, unable to go on, wasted with grief and sighing. Yes, I know how that feels, when the suffering of life is so profound that we are consumed by it, we can think of nothing else. She hears them whispering, she senses fear all around. The psalmists pain is so real, so approachable and understandable. Who hasn’t felt that sinking in their bellies or felt out of their mind with grief and sorrow.
This Sunday of the passion is a fractured one, it is intentionally difficult to process all that is happening. We enter in Joy but we leave the uncertainty of a closed tomb. Yes, we know what happens next week, but today we hear about the loss. That is where we live this week. First the Lament, the uncertainty, the loss. But even in our lament there are hints of what is beyond.
It is between verses 13 and 14 that our Psalmist quiets us. There is no pause indicated. There is no break in the meter. There is not and added verse of reflection and explanation so we know what she is thinking. There is a silence that screams from the white space between these verses. And the silence between these verses lasts an eternity. The silence between lament and confidence. This is where she makes her turn.
In the unspoken place of fracture where we are called to healing.
In that invisible liminal space where we float in suffering.
Waiting. (wait)
This is where we find ourselves this week. In the impossible space between, where we cry for salvation.
Save Me. Hosanna, please save me. The cry of Hosanna changes from one of joy to one of necessity, to one of longing. Our psalmist sings to us today and brings us into Jerusalem broken and crying for salvation. She takes us to Golgotha where our salvation hangs, where the cross seems to crush all hope. This is the work of Good Friday, when hope leaves us. The psalmist expresses suffering in a such a profound and personal way, helping us to channel our lament this week.
Our lament that is made even more painful by our cry to Crucify Him! Our betrayal is complete and yet. Hosanna is our cry.
But still, our psalmist stays the course. Verse 14 does come and breaks through the silence. Breaks through that liminal space and catches us. The psalmist’s confession restores her, and us. Brining us back from the brink. Back from the suffering, pointing toward healing.
This is a week of mystery where we enter into suffering and uncertainty. We are called this week to lose ourselves in the space of waiting and longing. To hear of the loss we know all too well. And yet without expecting it, without deserving it, without knowing why, salvation comes.